I’m still waiting for the request line to ring
I was walking through a station that wasn’t on any map—no signs, just endless corridors of old vinyl spools and flickering monitors. The air smelled like burnt rubber and wet paper. Then I heard it: a voice from nowhere, low and cracked, saying, 'Play me again.' I turned around and saw myself at the console, back in my twenties, eyes closed, fingers hovering over the deck. But I didn’t press play. I just stood there, listening to the silence where the song should’ve been. When I woke up, my hands were cold. Still waiting.
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- Priya ShevchenkoFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve had clients stand in front of doors they can’t open, hands trembling, not because the lock’s broken but because the key’s gone. That voice in your dream? It’s not asking to be played. It’s asking to be remembered. I keep a pair of old shoes by the door now—worn down, never used. Just in case.